


But in Dreams...

by Res



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-17
Updated: 2004-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Res/pseuds/Res
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron comforts Harry after a nightmare. (sort of)</p>
            </blockquote>





	But in Dreams...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angel423](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=angel423).



> Disclaimer: Not mine. But if she ever wants to get rid of Ron, I'll take him! No profit made, please don't sue me -- All I got's a couple dogs that you wouldn't like much anyway.
> 
> Notes: I promised a drabble to whomever broke the code on Latent (at http://www.livejournal.com/users/resqdog51/274088.html ) first. It was a tie. lj user angel423 and lj user aloria both did it at almost the same time, so I gave them both drabbles. This is lj user angel423's. I think, too, however, that part of it is lj user lardencelover's, because I think her muse paid me a visit...either that or he's been talking to _my_ Ron!muse behind my back. Which is entirely possible. Hope you like it, lj user angel423! (And Happy Birthday, lj user lardencelover!)

_  
**But in Dreams…**   
_

It begins with a sigh.

Every time, it begins with a sigh. The same small sigh, with just the faintest hint of a protesting whimper trailing on the tail end, followed by a frown and a turn of the head to the left (always to the left), and down, pulling back just a little, as if he's had something slimy and disgusting shoved into his face. Ron has become adept at hearing that sigh, whether he's at his desk, working, or in the bed, sleeping -- he's gotten so good, he can even hear it when he's in another room, and still be there in time to see the frown, the turn of the head.

Sometimes, it stops there. When it does, Ron goes back to what he was doing before he heard the sigh, keeping part of his attention listening for another sigh (as always, _always_ ), and the rest on whatever he was doing at the time.

Most of the time, however, there will be a pause, and then the head will turn again, to the right, pressing into the pillow with a soft, protesting murmur, face tightening. More often than not, the right hand will come up, flopping uselessly onto the pillow beside the dark head, as if to shield the sleeping eyes from seeing, or to ward off a blow. When this happens, Ron will approach the bed, kneel down next to it, and wait. If he interrupts the dream now, it will only come back, harder, faster, worse -- they've learned that. The dreams can't be avoided, only confronted, experienced, dealt with after the fact. There are no options. And so, Ron comes, and he waits, quietly, patiently, hurting inside at the knowledge of what is coming, the knowledge that he cannot do anything, not yet, to make it better.

Occasionally (rarely), it will stop there. When it does, Ron will stay by the bed for an hour, more, to make sure it is gone. He won't go back to what he was doing, on these nights -- instead, he will settle, there on the floor, and watch the sleeping face until it relaxes, listen to the slow breathing as it deepens and becomes more regular. On these nights, Ron does not sleep well, and the next morning he looks tired. But they do not talk about it, instead exchanging speaking looks full of 'thank you's and 'I did nothing's and 'don't mention it's. They never talk about these nights.

Most of the time, though, most of the time there will be a pause, and then the dream will begin in earnest. The arm will curl in, toward the head, and the face will scrunch up and burrow into the crook of protecting elbow. Shoulders will hunch and breath will go ragged and short, almost panting. Sometimes there is a word, a 'No'; sometimes a name. Never the same name, not always, but sometimes there is a name. Usually, though, it's just a noise, wordless but not meaningless as it forces it's way past a constricting throat, gritting teeth, on a breathless gasp of denial. _This_ is when Ron moves, reaching out and putting a hand on a cringing shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Harry."

This never works the first time. Ron tries anyway. But it never works. Not the first time.

Now the sweat begins, great drops of it suddenly springing out all over the face and throat, dampening hair and sleeking skin. The bed sheets soak through in moments, where they touch the skin. Another protest is muttered, louder, and the left arm comes up as well, cradling the damp head, hiding the sweating face. 'No!' is the most common protest heard now. 'NO!'

This always makes Ron get up, move to sit on the side of the bed, and put both hands out, gripping trembling shoulders firmly, shaking them.

"Harry!"

Sometimes, it takes two or three tries of this, but the result is always the same. A sharp gasp, a sudden bolt upright in bed, emerald eyes huge and staring. Usually some flailing is involved -- Ron once got a bloody nose from it -- but it dies down quickly, especially after Ron learned how to hug with his whole body, wrapping as much of himself as possible around the thrashing limbs, pulling the head firmly under his chin and holding on tightly until Harry comes back to himself again. This is assisted by gentle murmurs of support, and soft, quiet rocking in the bed, Ron whispering Harry's name over and over until Harry relaxes and begins to respond.

They always stay like this for a while, Ron wrapped tightly around Harry's trembling, sweat-soaked body, rocking him gently and whispering reassurances into the dark night until Harry's body slowly goes limp again. Then, Ron eases him back down into the bed, and brushes damp hair off his forehead, trailing fingers down a sweaty cheek and resting a hand on a slowly rising and falling chest, feeling the steady heartbeat thudding gently against his fingertips. And there he will stay until he is convinced Harry has gone back to sleep before tugging the covers back up underneath a sleeping chin, brushing tendrils of black hair off a sleeping forehead, and rising, quietly, softly, and returning to what he was doing before he heard the sigh, keeping part of his attention listening for another sigh and the rest on whatever he is working on.

But always, _always_ , listening for a sigh. Because it begins with a sigh, every time. But it always ends with Harry in his arms.

End


End file.
